This Scorching Earth by Donald Richie

His friends were very surprised, perhaps even a bit embarrassed.
    The Major, at thirty-five, considered himself a man. Japan had matured him. But a man cannot succeed all at once, no matter how great his ambition, and so the Major viewed his own retreats and failures with kindly indulgence. This was where Gloria came in. She was comforting; the very personification of home and family; worldly enough to smile at his misgivings and fallings from grace, yet doubtless innocent enough to believe, with him, that the world—particularly his own private one—could become ever so much nicer than it was now.
    To be sure, he was aware that Gloria had never done anything but laugh at him. Still, this was better than nothing. It proved that she had a sense of humor, and he had long believed that this quality was very precious and very American—almost exclusively so. In fact, having one was practically a patriotic duty. He was rather proud of his own.
    Gloria also had for him another and a higher meaning. He had selected her to help him achieve his ambitions. Together they would rise or together they would fall, though he never for a second believed that anything but success would crown his patriotic endeavors.
    Already he was insuring success by making a bit of money on the side, for how could one be truly succesful without money? It couldn't be done. Therefore, for the sake of his soul and Gloria, for the good of Japan and America, for a more complete identification of himself with the glorious ideals of the Occupation, the Major was neck-deep in the black market—and this was the reason he was staring at Michael and Gloria. He was merely waiting for her to leave before bringing up a little business matter with Private Richardson.
    No sooner had they squeezed past him into the office than he barked out: "Private Richardson, I want to see you."
    Gloria, already at her desk, raised her eyes, grimaced a smile of commiseration at the Private, and began the day's typing.
    In the hall Michael found the Major striding up and down.
    "Private Richardson," he said, "you didn't come in last night."
    "No, sir, I didn't."
    "Private, you're given quarters in these here offices as a convenience to the Army. If you're not here at nights, then there's no use you living here at all. Next time this happens I'm gonna personally send you back to barracks. Just like anyone else. Understand?"
    "Yes, sir," said Michael. He purposely refused to stand at attention. Resting one foot behind him, he folded his arms across his chest.
    "You think I won't, buddy, but I would. Just like that! You wouldn't want that, would you?"
    "No," said Michael, "but, then, you wouldn't either, would you? Who'd run your errands then?"
    Major Calloway turned slightly pale, his freckles bleaching to a light orange. He glanced up and down the hall and then said: "No, naturally I wouldn't." He grew slightly red and added: "But you don't need to think you can walk all over me, Private. Sure, we're both in this, but you're gettin' yours. So don't think you can get snotty."
    Michael shrugged his shoulders and waited.
    This, as was intended, irritated the Major: "And I got news for you, Private. After tonight we part company."
    The soldier looked mildly interested. "That so, sir?"
    "And I wish it was tomorrow already," said the Major.
    "So do I, sir," said Michael.
    Here, thought Michael, is the kind that could be very dangerous. The kind that doesn't feel he's doing wrong, the kind that can talk himself into being self-righteous about breaking the law. Around the office he was the clown, the regular cutup, half-purposely, half-unintentionally. But all of his practical jokes, his cute sayings, his sunny smiles were false. He could be vicious.
    The Major's mouth relaxed and he smiled. Their enmity was becoming too apparent. 'After all," he said, "this is the last time. I'd think you'd be glad to get rid of the responsibility and all."
    "It's as much yours as it is mine, sir,"